


i still hear your voice, in the traffic

by Lindsflea



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Angst and Tragedy, Car Accidents, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Driving, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Nightmares, have a lovely day LMAO, this is very fucking sad and i apologise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindsflea/pseuds/Lindsflea
Summary: George has always had a tough time saying no to Dream.Maybe that’s part of the reason why George agreed, albeit reluctantly, for Dream to teach him how to drive.(in which George is learning how to drive, however things don’t always stay on the correct course.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 54





	i still hear your voice, in the traffic

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a wild ride(literally), i suggest grabbing a snack and maybe some tissues if you cry easily :]
> 
> thank you so very much to [Athenaash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenaash) for beta reading! <3
> 
> title is from 'drivers license' by olivia rodrigo
> 
> as always, if the cc's ever express discomfort about fanfiction, this will be taken down. respect their boundaries!  
> enjoy :]

George has always had a tough time saying no to Dream.

His boyfriend knows exactly what to say or do to get the Brit on his side. It normally takes a dozen words or less before Dream has George hanging onto every syllable like a hymn and nodding feverishly with every statement the blond makes. Hand in hand, side by side, the pair conquer whatever Dream had wanted to do together. Most of the time, it was something absolutely ridiculous or blatantly unfathomable to the majority of society, but George would tag along anyways just so long as Dream believed it was a good idea.

And even if George doesn’t agree at first, Dream usually just kisses the yes out of him. Flushing and giggling like a teenager who just experienced their first kiss, the brunet happily reciprocates the affection and eventually agrees to whatever it was that the younger had suggested for that day.

The two are inseparable; their bond is unbreakable. George would stay beside Dream to the ends on the Earth and beyond, as long as Dream would promise the same. And he does. If their relationship were to be put on the edge of a pyre and tested throughout various close to impossible trials that will have them face their unavoidable demise, they’d pass each and every one. It’s cheesy, but it’s true; with each other, they feel as if they’re on top of the world.

Maybe that’s part of the reason why George agreed, albeit reluctantly, for Dream to teach him how to drive.

It was late one night in their kitchen when the question was brought up. George had just crossed the threshold of the hallway door, heading towards the fridge in the hopes of finding a plausible midnight beverage.

Dream was sitting in a barstool which coaligned beside the kitchen island, a lazy head propped up with one of his hands, elbow on the surface, and the other mindlessly tapping the glistening marble. His eyes trailed along to watch George make his way across the room, shimmering with an unmistakable amount of fondness for the man.

“Hey,” Dream starts, and George hums noncommittally, “I want to teach you how to drive.”

George freezes, and almost drops the carton of apple juice he had grabbed from the fridge in surprise. Dream chuckles at his slight misfortune.

In hindsight, George really shouldn’t have been that taken aback. He’s lived in the United States for almost a year now, and has yet to show any interest in getting his license. Dream drives him everywhere, whether it’s the local grocery store two minutes away or the airport across the city so he can go visit his family. Even though they never spoke about it, Dream is basically his personal chauffeur. On top of all this, Dream also works as a driving instructor, teaching doe-eyed teenagers and bitter adults how to maneuver in a vehicle on the daily. 

It was expected. Inevitable, really. George had just ignored all the signs and pretended to shrug off the major elephant in the room every chance he got.

Lamely, George steadies himself and asks: “Why?” He starts to pour himself a glass of apple juice in distraction, trying to compose his shaking hands as Dream replies.

“Why?” he repeats, “because it’ll be beneficial for the both of us. And I’ve been meaning to teach you for a while.” His tapping on the island increases in frequency, and George has half the mind to strut over there and hold his hand to subside it.

“Really?” George says, and it was a rather pathetic attempt to get Dream to change his mind. Once the blond’s mind is set in stone with something, there is no turning back. And in all honesty, learning to drive isn’t that bad of an idea after all. Besides the safety precautions and the insanely long process it takes, Dream is right; there are so many benefits that prove to be worth all the time and effort of learning.

“Of course!” the aforementioned man exclaims, perking his head up to get a better look at George, who sits down directly across from him at the table. “And besides, I’m an amazing teacher. Best of the best, actually.”

George laughs. “Don’t get too cocky, now.” Dream’s eyes are filled with mirth and adoration for the boy in front of him, and George sports his own soft and intimate smile, matching the same amount of emotion in Dream’s emerald irises. 

“That wasn’t a no,” Dream remarks, and George doesn’t hide the roll of his eyes as he takes a sip from his apple juice. Dream continues to look at him, expectantly. 

George takes a bit of time to ponder over his options, occasionally sipping from his apple juice and yawning as Dream waits patiently. 

Really, there are little to no disadvantages to learning how to drive. Despite the obvious safety issues, nothing else comes up at the top of George’s mind. It is obvious that the pros outnumber the cons, and there is no reason for George to disagree with Dream’s wishes (despite losing an incredibly handsome chauffeur, of course).

And because George never knows how to just quite say no to Dream, and because he’s absolutely whipped for the man and hands all of his insecurities, wishes, and secrets to him on a golden platter, George belatedly succumbs to the offer and agrees.

Besides, what could possibly go wrong? 

“Fine,” George murmurs, staring down at his glass of juice like it had just offended him in twenty different languages, “I’ll cave. When are we starting?”

Dream perks up at that, and George distantly thinks if Dream were a dog his tail would be swishing around relentlessly. Giddily, Dream reaches his hands over the table, almost knocking over the glass, and cups George’s jaw tenderly. George relishes in the warm touch of his partner’s calloused hands and leans into it. 

“You beauty!” Dream praises, absolutely enamoured by the boy in front of him. 

And who’s to say George isn’t just as enamoured back?

That is more than likely how they ended up where they are now. Dream is sprawled out across their bed, covering his eyes with one arm to fend off the early morning light seeping through the shudders. On the other side of the room, George is hunched over at their desk, back screaming at him for not purchasing a better chair, with a laptop in his lap, its bright screen labeled Free  _ DMV Permit Practice Test - Florida  _ biting back at him with so much fervor George wants to slam it shut and crawl back into bed.

The small numbers on the right hand side of the screen read  _ 5:03  _ and George internally groans. He’s been up all night, studying for this wretched test for hours. Dream had stayed up with him, offering tips and tricks as best as he could, but even he got absolutely exhausted a while back and is now on the verge of falling asleep and becoming a visitor of a plethora of sweet, sweet dreams. George can only wish for that at this moment.

The question plastered on the screen shows a yellow traffic sign with the word  _ DIP  _ written out in big bold letters. It asks what the word means in relation to possible hazards of the such on the road, and frankly, George has no clue.

He’s been stuck on this one for the past five minutes, whether from lack of knowledge or terrible sleep deprivation, he isn’t too sure. 

Despite Dream’s attempted efforts in helping him, George still feels like he’s gotten nowhere in progress. It took an abnormal amount of tries to pass the first two practice tests, and now he’s only just gotten to the third and the questions are obscenely difficult. He feels like a ticking time bomb that has been hassled around relentlessly in a fruitless attempt to rid of the explosion; no matter how many times he tries to rid himself of the fuse, it’s all going to blow up into pieces the day he goes to take the actual test and fails.

Setting the laptop down gently on the desk, George swivels the chair around to face Dream, now sound asleep on the bed. All George wants to do is crawl in there with him and latch onto his body warmth like a lifeline. 

“Fucking hell,” George murmurs, exasperated. Dream stirs in his sleep and George stills, watching his boyfriend wake up from his drowsy subconscious haze and blink sleepily at him. Sometimes, George forgets just how light of a sleeper Dream actually is.

“George?” Dream asks, “you alright?” 

George slouches down in his chair even further until the back of his head almost reaches the seat of the fabric. “‘M tired and frustrated, this is difficult,” he whines, drawing out the occasional syllable. 

Dream stretches, and sits up in the bed so that his back is resting against the headboard. “C’mere,” he gestures, patting the side of the comforter next to him, “and bring the laptop too.” 

George moves like a snail, but eventually plops down next to Dream, laptop in his lap, and subconsciously rests his head on the blond’s shoulder. He blows out a breath of air and sighs while Dream gently caresses his brown locks, threading his fingers throughout them and detangling the knots that had slowly built up. 

“Here.” Dream carefully picks up the laptop from the boy’s lap and places it on his own, then squints at the screen, blinking the sleep away from his eyes. George watches him with a deadpan expression. 

“The DIP sign, huh?” Dream reads, and uses the trackpad to move the cursor onto the correct answer, which was the  _ one  _ answer George ruled out as being false. He groans again, but this time externally. 

“Hey, hey,” Dream soothes, moving his hand that was in the brunet’s hair in favor of a better option: linking their hands together, “it’s alright. I’ll teach you why.”

“Please do,” George mumbles, sliding his head down to muffle his voice in the fabric of Dream’s hoodie. 

Dream takes a breath in preparation, and then immediately goes off on a lighthearted ramble, exaggerated hand movements and all. George sits there, eyes drooping with weariness, as he half-listens to his boyfriend jabber about something he is so passionate about.

George doesn’t tune him out, per-say, once he fulfills speaking about the needed information to understand the question, but instead, stops listening to his words and starts listening more intently to his voice.

To George, Dream’s voice is something heavenly; paraphrased right out of the Bible and blessing those who are lucky enough to be able to listen to him. The way he stumbles over his words when he’s tired or babbles endlessly about something of great importance to him, or the way his voice slows and deepens when he’s talking to George and solely to George alone. Hearing his syllables come out of his smooth Floridian accent and punctuating the important parts of the vowels and consonants, enlightening George on something with great meaning or speaking in hushed whispers whilst trying to console him; it’s all absolutely ethereal. 

Time and time again George wonders why he listens to Dream so intently, despite whatever crazy idea he has planned, but then he comes back to these sorts of moments and doesn’t regret a single thing.

After shaking himself out of his lovestruck haze, George glances over at his boyfriend, who is still speaking animatedly. When Dream looks over and catches George staring, he halts all movements and flusters, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

  
“I-, ah, I didn’t start rambling again, did I?” George laughs at the rare occasion where Dream’s face blossoms into a myriad of pink shades instead of his.

“You did, but it’s okay, Dream.” Dream grins, the blush slowly dissipating from his face. George watches with eyes of levity.

“You got all the info you needed, right?” Dream asks. George nods in affirmation. 

“That and more,” he replies, sinking down into the welcoming sheets of the comforter and dragging Dream down with him, “Thank you.”

Dream presses a chaste kiss in the brunet’s hair and snuggles up against him, closing his eyes and letting his eyelashes flutter against George’s cheeks, which makes him giggle. “Anytime, Georgie.”

The pair fall asleep together with an unspoken agreement that they won’t be going to the DMV to take the test  _ too  _ early in the morning.

With the sunrise cascading into their room and leaving drizzles and speckles of sunlight littering the air, along with the gentle breathing of his lover wrapped securely in his arms, George feels at peace.

~

It’s late afternoon when the pair decide to head to the local DMV so George can take the test.

The sun has already peaked its highest in the sky by the time George enters the passenger side of Dream’s car. Beams of sunlight glisten down on its lime green surface, making the vehicle hot to the touch. George easily slides in on the right side, which he still isn’t used to all that well, and winces when the metal of the seatbelt burns his fingers.

Fastening it up, George watches with gentle admiration as Dream shifts the gears in the center console and puts the car in reverse, steadily backing out of their driveway.

Once it's situated in the correct position on the road, he shifts gears again and starts driving, keeping to the right side of the road, which, once again, George  _ still  _ isn’t all too used to.

“You ready for this?” Dream asks once they’re at a steady speed, maneuvering their way throughout the neighborhood and passing up a couple of people walking their dogs.

George sighs breathlessly, watching through the window as flashes of green and grey pass by as they pick up speed, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

They arrive at the DMV no less than ten minutes later. Dream pulls into the only parking spot that is available and puts the car into park. He turns his head to look over at George, sending him a reassuring smile.

Simultaneously, they both exit the car and slam the doors behind them shut. Dream presses a button on his keys before putting them away, locking the car and making it emit a small honk in response.

Similar to a cat, George slips over to Dream’s side and leans into him. Dream wraps an arm around the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles on the fabric of his shirt. George leans into the domestic touch, relaxing just a little.

“You got this, Georgie,” the blond murmurs, nuzzling his face into the brunet’s hair and planting a little kiss on the crown of his head, “I’m rooting for you.”

He untangles himself a little from his boyfriend as they walk into the establishment and to the front desk.

George didn’t realise just  _ how much  _ information they needed in order for him to start the test, but luckily Dream came prepared. Social security numbers, birthdates, and the whole shebang was to be filled out on various forms of the like. And this was all before George even takes the test, so if he fails they would have to repeat the entire process again.

But to George, it wasn’t a matter of if. It was a promise of  _ when _ .

After a few long minutes of begrudgingly detailed paperwork, George is brought forward to take the visionary test. 

With shaking hands and sweat forming at his temples, he presses his forehead and chin into the black container, which immediately shows a plethora of numbers and other unworldly syllables for him to read out. Surprisingly, he nails each one perfectly. They don’t require him to wear contacts or anything of the sort while out driving, but instead recommend keeping someone in the car with him all times, even after he receives his license, due to his colorblindness.

George doesn’t blame them for that suggestion one bit.

After the tedious informalities of what comes before, the actual test is prepared and George claims to be ready to begin, when he most certainly is not.

Dream steps back into the waiting room, and George internally freaks out. Quiet and small, he asks, “You’re not coming with?”

Dream shakes his head fondly. “I have to stay out here for the actual test. Don’t worry though, you got this.”

_ You keep saying that, and despite myself, I believe every word that comes out of your beautiful mouth. _

George rolls his shoulders back and forth to relieve some of the tension, and nods shortly at Dream. “Right. See you on the other side.”

“See you,” is all Dream says in response before George walks in the other room and the door is slammed shut, blocking his boyfriend on the other side.

The room is cubed in shape, small and desolate of any unnecessary furniture or décor. A clock hangs on the right wall, ticking the minutes away and echoing throughout the hollow room. In the center on the back wall is a desk and chair, with a computer situated on top of the surface, screen glowing blue and shadowing the room in a soulless haze.

George walks closer and sits down at the desk, reading the various amounts of information given to him. 

_ Forty questions. Miss more than ten, you fail. Take as much time as you need. You can skip questions if you do not know the answer, but you must come back to them later on in the test. Good luck. _

The scenery around him, the eerie glow from the computer screen, and the overwhelming anxiety inside of his brain is all too much.

There is a big black arrow on the right side of the screen, beckoning him to start. He feels threatened.

With shaking hands, George intakes a gasp of air, grabs the mouse with his left hand and clicks the arrow, entering the beginnings of the test.

He puffs out his cheeks and parts his mouth open a little, letting the air slip from his face as he reads the first question. He remembers this one; the very question he was stuck on for who knows how long.

With that remembrance comes the softer, more intimate one. Dream, talking away like his life depended on it, with soft giddy bursts or slow murmured stutters. Pouring his heart out on a topic he’s so vehement about, for his and George’s ears only. Assisting and teaching George past the late hours of the night, being patient with him when he becomes disheartened, being there for him every step of the way.

Confidence seeping back into his demeanour, George clicks on one of the answers and hits submit. The checkmark smiles at him as his answer gets surveyed, and his answer proves to be correct. George grins back despite himself, proceeding on to the next question.

His newfound credence in the following questions and the adjoined commemoration of his boyfriend and how much he’s been helping these past few days, George lets a small smile rest on his face as he reads out the next problem in his head.

The following few inquiries breeze by like a leaf in the wind. George answers each and every one with ease, getting the occasional one incorrect, but those barely spark an edge to his total score. Come around the middle of the test, he has gotten twenty six correct and only four incorrect, thus making the chances of passing even more probable, lifting his spirits higher.

Just a couple days ago, George would not be able to fathom being here right now; taking a test for his permit and being just minutes away from more than likely succeeding and being on the road with countless others. The thought of it is rejuvenating, tickling at his senses like feathered twine.

By the near end of the test, the screen flashes abruptly. Furrowing his brows for a split second, George’s heart catches in his throat, afraid he did something wrong.

But all his worries dissipate away when he reads what is now situated in the centre of the screen.

_ Congratulations! You have received a passing score. Please return to the front desk. _

Below that reveals his score: a whopping ninety two percent. George’s eyes widen in surprise and excitement. He  _ passed. _

Suppressing a giddy sound of glee, George hastily gets up from his seat and walks towards the door, a notable skip in his step. He twists the doorknob and exits the suffocating room, being greeted by none other than the presence of his absolutely  _ amazing  _ boyfriend.

“How’d it go?” Dream asks, but the matching smile on his voice that is gently reciprocating George’s makes him think that he already knows.

George takes a few strides forward and wraps his arms around Dream’s large frame, gathering the taller in a hug. One of his hands finds its way to his blond hair while the other situates itself at the small of his back. Nuzzling his face into his shoulder, smile imprinting on the cloth, George responds: “I passed!”

Dream ruffles his hair, and coaxes George to look up at him with a few gentle taps on his chin. George obliges, elated with adoration and childlike joviality. 

The same immense amount of emotion reflects itself from Dream’s eyes, emerald seeping into chocolate brown as the two hold a gaze of a million embers, sparked throughout their hearts and encompassing their bodies. 

Slowly, surely, Dream locks the brunet’s lips with his, initiating a heartwarming kiss. George melts into it, wrapping his arms around the younger’s neck to full him impossibly closer, bodies flushed together and lips in sync. 

George would have stayed in that position forever, relishing in the feeling of Dream’s mouth on his, but they are still in public. And George still has more paperwork to fill out and a permit to receive.

  
  


The two make their way up to the front desk, hand in hand. The receptionist flashes them a professional, yet friendly, smile as she files their paperwork and types various information onto the computer.

Waiting in comfortable silence, Dream and George take a seat at the pair of chairs located directly behind them. George pulls out his phone and taps on things mindlessly, not really paying attention to the mobile device. Dream watches him, 

After a few rather restless minutes, the worker calls George up. He rises from his seat and follows from where the woman beckons him to head towards.

Belatedly, George realises they have to take their picture for the permit. Smiling awkwardly, he flinches inwardly when the flash of the camera turns on and spits directly in his eyesight. The lady takes a few moments to look at it, and then smiles, nodding her head and humming in approval. George takes that as a good sign. 

Time passes by easily after that, and before they know it the pair are up at the register again, listening half-heartedly at the instructions the receptionist gives them and what to know and not know about handling a permit, a car, etcetera. Dream already knows every bit of this, and who’s to say he isn’t the best teacher George could ever ask for?

The permit is printed off and handed to them, and George takes a moment to admire his new card, filled to the brim with his identity and information. 

It glimmers in the light as he flips it around to and fro, a few shadows catching in its midst. His full name, birthdate, and address are all printed neatly beneath his photo; which doesn’t actually look half bad. Other personal ideals of the sort are plastered all over the thin piece of plastic. George still cannot realise how he managed to pass the test and now has passed the major legalities to start the driving process.

When they leave the establishment and head towards the car with newfound cheeriness, George can’t help but wonder how he got so lucky with Dream by his side. As a partner, as a best friend, and now as a teacher. There is nothing more he would ever ask for.

**~**

The next morning, George is mindlessly watching something on the television. The multicolored picture frame boasts about something lackluster and frankly boring, and George dazes over it with half-lidded eyes as he tries not to fall asleep.

Luckily, Dream has other ideas for what they can do to spend their lazy Sunday.

“George!” Dream calls from somewhere else in the house, and George perks up, suddenly much more interested in the whereabouts of his boyfriend than whatever sort of cartoonish shit was broadcasted on the TV.

He lifts himself up from the couch and heads over to shut off the black electronic box, hastily responding with a curious, “Yeah?”

“Wanna go driving?”

George freezes up, stills his movements, and falters. Yesterday still felt like a fever dream to him, something he can only make up in the smallest figments of his imagination; something never able to reflect itself back into his daily, very real life.

Relaxing a little, George flexes his muscles and recomposes himself, stretching out a bit and focusing on his breathing. Slowly, he straightens back up from where he was previously hunched down at the button to turn off the TV and tilts his head inquisitively towards Dream’s direction of voice. “Now?”

“Yes, now! If you’re up for it of course,” Dream says, and appears from the kitchen. He’s holding a half eaten banana and sporting a messy bed head tousled around blond hair. George has half the mind to walk up and snuggle against him, but ultimately decides against it.

He has his permit. He has Dream. He has everything needed for driving to be legal, everything needed for it to go absolutely perfect, without any blemishes.

Throwing his hesitance aside, reasoning it as first time jitters, George shrugs and says, “Sure.”

Dream’s smile brightens the entire room at George’s response. And really, if he had at first said no, how could he express his disinterest to it now, when Dream is looking at him  _ like that _ ?

Grabbing his hand, warm and calloused in contrast to George’s pale cool skin, Dream leads the dynamic duo back into the kitchen. From there, they exit out the screen door and make their way towards the garage.

Hot fretfulness spikes its way throughout George’s body and sets his head on fire as Dream opens the door for him and he hops in the front seat, directly in front of the wheel. 

With steady and helping hands, Dream places his palms on top of George’s and coaxes his way onto the steering wheel, situating his fingers and hands in the right positions on the warm rubber and giving his right one a little pat in gentle reassurance. 

Dream then starts the car with the keys inside of the ignition, having the vehicle starting up, revolving the insides of the automobile and resonating lowly from the outside with a steady buzz. George shoots up, suddenly well aware of everything going on around him. The fringes of his hair he had forgotten to brush out, the loose thread in his turquoise sweater, the temperature of the steering wheel, the fact that he has  _ no fucking idea what he’s supposed to do. _

The blond on the passenger side seems to notice his wariness, and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, Georgie. I’m here.”

George leans into the touch and visibly relaxes at the kind contact from his boyfriend.

“I’ll tell you what you have to do, step by step alright?” 

Nodding, George prepares himself, both mentally and physically. He perks up and awaits for Dream’s instructions.

“Put your foot on the brake, and shift the gear into drive.”

George obliges, and moves his hand to shift the gear on the center console, setting his foot on the brake pedal simultaneously. 

“Now, ease off the brake. You’ll be moving, then. Just, coast on the driveway.”

Slowly but surely, George lifts his foot from the brake. The car starts rolling on the driveway. George almost panics, but Dream sets a careful hand on his thigh and he loosens up a little.

“Good, good! Now we’re going to have to turn up here, alright? I’ll give you the okay and then you turn the wheel to the right as far as you can go.”

A beat.

“Okay.”

With that, George spins the wheel to the right, resulting in the tires to shift and the entire vehicle to make its way off the driveway and out onto the road. George internally cheers while Dream does the same, but externally. 

“Let’s go, George! See, you’re a natural.”

George lets out a breathy chuckle, hands still slightly shaking. “Whatever you say.”

With that, Dream continues to spew out directions and tips as they venture around the neighborhood in a full semi-circle. Aside from some slight mistakes and meanders off course, George surprises himself and does relatively well.

They eventually make their way back to the house and George pulls into the driveway with the same amount of ease he had pulling out. It feels fantastical, really, just how well George actually did, especially for a first timer.

Dream rewards him with over excited yet delighted glee all the same, a few sweet kisses, and a movie night. George deems his excessive fears being conquered worth it.

George falls asleep relatively easily that night, what with the long day he had and the first drive jitters. He expects a peaceful and well sleep, but receives just the opposite.

Visions flash by his mind on repeat as he enters his R.E.M sleep. They come unyielding and attack his mind viciously with every passage. 

Blood, splattered on the paved road and dotted yellow lines.

Cars, so many cars, to and fro, back and forth, crashing into each other at abnormally high speeds.

People. People walking on the streets, people inside of their cars, their houses.

The same people, now dead, in the middle of the road; the middle of the blood.

They’re all strangers, unwelcoming neighbors of the sort. Despite this, it doesn’t frighten George any less. Because the fact that these sorts of things could happen so easily, in the blink of an eye, to someone more personal and of greater importance to him.

It’s utterly petrifying. 

After surpassing that stage of the sleep cycle, George sleeps peacefully the rest of the night. However, the same thoughts nag at the back of his mind, itching for an escape to substantiality. George pays them no mind.

~

It’s a few days later, and Dream had the wonderful idea of George driving on the main stretch of roads for an extended period of time.

They haven’t even left the driveway yet and George is already freaking out.

He checks his mirrors, once, twice, and thrice. Repeats the action again. Looks down to make sure the gear shift located on the center console is in reach. Checks to assure that the car is on and ready to go. Complains halfheartedly about it being too hot to go driving. Fiddles with the radio station a few seconds too long, based off the heavy sigh Dream exhales from his right side. Muttering something unintelligible, he checks to make sure Dream is safe, secure, and has his seat belt on properly.

George is, for lack of a better word, stalling.

Driving terrifies him, to say the least. Everything about it so far shakes him up through the core and reflects on the outside through wide eyes and fidgeting hands. The nightmare, undoubtedly, made everything exponentially worse.

“Geooooorge,” Dream drawls out, slightly annoyed, “it’ll be fine. You’re literally a natural at this.”

George puts his head in his hands as he lays it on the wheel, making great care not to accidentally sound the horn. “Just to the church lot and back, right?” he mumbles into the leather coating.

Dream hums in confirmation. 

Reluctantly, George draws back from the wheel and stretches back in his seat, slowly but surely situating his hands and feet into the correct positions. “Just ten minutes?”

“It’s only a ten minute drive, yes.” Dream assures. 

It really should be silly, how just a few words from the blond man reassure George so much. How much trust and fondness for the younger he has accumulated over the years and how it makes him a higher up on a noble pedestal in George’s world of importance. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

With that thought resting in the back of his mind, he shifts the gear and steadily presses on the gas pedal, exiting the driveway. 

Throwing his fears and apprehensions aside, George focuses on the road in front of him and the task at hand. All the while, Dream mutters kind reassurances and gentle tips from the passenger seat. It soothes George’s alight nerves like hot cocoa after a cold winter’s evening.

The drive goes fairly well, albeit George’s worries don’t subside very much. He stays a good ten miles below the speed limit at all times, earning a few honks of displeasure and a few certain middle fingered gestures his direction; though he pays them no mind.

A stray squirrel directly scampers across his path, resulting in the brunet to slam on the brakes, sending their bodies flying forwards, then backwards, crashing against the seats. Dream laughs cheekily while George groans, his face turning pink.

Eventually, he’s rounding the last corner, flicking his turning signal on and taking a sharp left, just missing the edge of the curb.

“Hey, that was pretty good!” Dream praises. George smiles in return, keeping his eyes glued to the road in front of him. 

The church is a few yards to the left, so George flicks his turning signal down until the left arrow flashes green and black back at him. The turn is going to be tight. George doesn’t miss how Dream holds his breath in preparation when he steadily starts spinning the wheel.

Hitting a pothole was the only meager malfunction that occurred when George turned into the lot. He drives on the center of the pavement with absolute ease, pressing down on the gas a little to gain more traction and pulls ever so steadily into the parking space.

Parking, on the other hand, is a curse in disguise as a common societal standard. His left front tire is completely over the white line while his back few are spun haphazardly after he shifts the gear. The right front seems like the only tire that managed to enter the correct spot. George hardly pays any mind to it, too caught up in the fact that he made it,  _ safe and alive _ .

Dream seems to be experiencing the same amount of excitement and giddiness his boyfriend is feeling, as he cheers a bit too loudly, “Let’s fucking go George!” Shooting his fist in the sky and pumping the roof of the car as George pulls the keys out of the ignition and shuts the vehicle off, the pair feel at the top of the world. 

George pockets the keys in his jeans and grins cheerfully up at Dream, who is looking at him like he’d hung all the stars in the sky. George barely has time to blush and fluster under his heated stare at Dream lunges forward and pulls the brunet in for a kiss.

It’s rather uncomfortable, clambering across the center console separating the two to situate himself better to deepen the kiss, but the both of them wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Dream leans forward until he’s close enough to wrap one hand around George’s waist and leave the other lingering behind the nape of his neck. George takes his hands and pulls gently at the blond locks of hair on Dream’s head, earning a muffled sound coming from the boy, which results in the kiss deepening.

Stuttered breaths and small gasps are the only sounds emitted in the comfort of their car, which is still situated and parked in a  _ very  _ Christian establishment. George, to say the least, couldn’t care less. Not when his absolutely perfect boyfriend is in front of him, kissing the life out of him like he depends on it and relishing in his touch, his lips, his  _ everything _ .

They part for air after a few minutes, staring at each other smittenly with pupils dilated and lips wet and pink. They take a moment to recompose themselves, before immediately diving back in for more.

The two crave each other; crave their success, their happiness, theirselves. They can never seem to get enough, and sometimes it is simultaneously too much and always too  _ little _ . It’s passionate and bright, bursting at the fringes of their hearts, and they love every minute of it, of  _ each other _ .

So they continue to kiss their breaths away, even with the judging stares from any passersby and being in the middle of a church parking lot. Nothing can ruin this moment of  _ each other _ , wrapped up like a coil and relishing in the fact that,  _ yeah _ , this is our life.

  
  
  


That night, George lies in bed, wide awake, staring at their ceiling in expectancy; like something would appear from underneath it or the entire surface would shift. 

He tosses and turns around in the sheets, careful to not wake the sleeping boy beside him. Normally, his sleep would come easily. Especially after a long day like this one. But tonight, it’s totally different. 

Blinking a couple times, George tries to imagine the white tiles of the ceiling as puffy wool sheep, counting the imaginary animals like those in children's bedtime stories do to fall asleep faster. It does not work.

He slowly flops to and fro in a repetitive motion like a fish out of water, irritated. The alarm clock on the side reads an absolute ungodly hour of the night, which is a key reason as to why George  _ really  _ shouldn’t be awake right about now.

Eventually, the brunet quits flailing around and sinks into the comforter, rolling onto his chest and burying his face in the cold side of the pillow. Dream lets out a rather obnoxious snore beside him. George suppresses a chortle.

Minutes seem like hours, which merge their way into endless lifetimes. Time feels distant and unpredictable, trapped in the expanse of his bed with only the sleeping sounds of his boyfriend beside him to keep him grounded to reality.

The underside of his eyes are heavy, his reflexive movements are gradually slowing, and his body aches for the closure of a sweet slumber. Every single nerve inside of him wants to sleep, but none of them make the effortless attempt to succumb into the security of tranquil unconsciousness.

So he just lies there, staring at the damned white tiled ceiling for eternities, occasionally blinking and letting his mind go blank.

It’s actually kind of nice; peaceful even. George could relish in it if he really wanted to.

But the serenity doesn’t last long, because in the blink of an eye the world turns white and flashes before George’s eyes in a matter of milliseconds. Multitudes of different colors and shades appear and reappear, the edge of reality merging and crossing the blurred line of something new and ethereal. The steady rumble of  _ something  _ buzzing echoes in the background, along with the occasional thump of George being nudged around ever so slightly. 

George opens his eyes, and is in a place anew.

He is relaxed against a leathery seat, in the midst of a strange car, though not unfamiliar. Miscellaneous candy wrappers and various coffee cups litter the interior. Soft classical music is playing through the stereo, lulling his heartbeat to a gentle thum. The woman in the driver’s seat, the  _ right  _ side, is a spitting image of his mother. Soft chocolate brown eyes, short yet curly auburn hair, pale face and cheeks permanently feathered in a lush shade of pink. Everything around him feels utterly familiar, feels like  _ home _ .

“Did you sleep well, George?” the woman in the driver’s seat asks, and yeah, that definitely sounds like the calm and sweet voice of his mom.

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, though it doesn’t necessarily sound like him. He sounds younger, more childlike, almost. The words flew from his mouth with such ease he wasn’t able to interpret what he had voiced aloud before they escaped. His mother hums in response at first, returning her attention back to the road.

A moment later, the woman speaks up again: “It’ll be a few more minutes, alright hon?”

Brows furrowed, confused, George inquiries, “A few minutes until what?”

At this, she chuckles, low and hoarse, similar to the rumble of the engine. An involuntary shudder passes through George’s spine at the uncanniness of it all. Something knots in his chest, and builds up with apprehension and a false sense of security.

Unsteady, George lets his gaze shift towards the window, and watches as the plethora of sceneries and shapes zoom past at abnormally high speeds. They look to be on some sort of highway, which would normally compensate for the pace they are moving at, but one look confirms his suspicions that his mother is moving a little  _ too _ fast.

He shoots his head to look back over at the brunette, who still has her eyes glued to the road, clutching onto the steering wheel like it's a limpet, knuckles turning white. Her vision seems blurry and unfocused; she does not look well.

“Mum?” George starts, punctuations of worry lacing his tone. 

His mother pays him no mind, and steps on the gas a little stronger. The car moves a little faster.

“Mum,” George repeats, more stern this time, gullible. 

The speedometer reads seventy five as they continue to accelerate. George’s eyes widen as the speed picks up.

Eighty. George is fidgeting nervously in his seat.

Eighty five. His hands start shaking.

Ninety. He starts to feel sick, bile threatening to escape from the backs of his throat.

“Mum, slow down!” George yells, voice shaking, but in response, his mother shoots the windows wide open. The gusts of fresh England air drown out any further cries of protest.

There is nothing George can do. He sits there, borderline panicking and dumbfounded, as his own mother drives them directly towards their impending doom.

It should have been expected when it happens. The build up of the inevitable was immense and blatantly obvious, yet nothing had ever shocked George more when the truck pulled on from the entrance ramp and their measly convertible ran directly into it.

Flashes of black and white cloud George’s vision as he plummets, puffs of smoke and the stench of blood intruding on his senses. The high pitched screams and distance sirens in the background are no match for the ringing in his ears.

Crimson and maroon enter his sight as he blinks once, twice. His heartbeat is racing, his palms are sweaty, and the pain is relentless and throbbing. Fiery ashes of ember and gold sprinkle around him like a wildfire, people all around him, grabbing at various things and yelling. Sweat beads at his forehead, stabs of daggers attack his temples, his ribcage bleeds smokes of ember and acid. Reality and fictionality are merged together as one; he cannot tell the difference.

Exhaustion and overwhelming fear piling up inside his head, he shuts his eyes closed, takes a last breath, and sees white. 

  
  


George wakes up and does not sleep again for the remainder of the night.

~

George really doesn’t want to go driving again.

Because of this, he makes up every little excuse not to. Ranging from being busy with something work related to telling a small white lie about the vehicle so he wouldn’t have to go out on the road that day. Dream believes everything he says, and George can’t help feel a little guilty about the entire situation.

So maybe that’s why he finally allowed the blond man to convince him to drive yet again. (Well, that and the fact that George will condone whatever Dream says.)

Once Dream is fully situated in the passenger side of the vehicle, George shifts the gear to drive and goes. The pair really isn’t sure where their final destination will land, but George figures just around twenty minutes of driving would be doable enough, and then they could arrive home and not have to worry about driving for another few days.

He circles the neighborhood once, twice. Eventually thrice until Dream reveals his annoyance in the form of a half-hearted nudge to the shoulder. Rolling his eyes fondly, George takes a turn out of the neighborhood and makes his way to the supermarket.

Dream gazes out the window. “The market?”

George nods in affirmation before speaking. “Why not, we don’t have anywhere to go, do we?”

Dream shrugs. “I suppose not.”

The brunet knows that the younger has more he wants to say, judging by how stern he looks in the seat and how his eyes thrash around wildly at the scenery before them. George pays him no mind, in favor of getting a decent parking position in the lot.

Once he parks the car, George relaxes in the seat, slouching down and messing with the hem of his sweater. Dream gazes at him expectantly. 

“What?” George asks, after a few moments of tense silence.

“Well,” Dream says, gesturing to the store and the setting outside of the car, “are we going to go in, or go somewhere else?”

At this, George tilts his head, as if he is deep in thought. Timidly, he suggests, “We can go home?”

Dream gawks at him, dumbfounded. “Home? For what?”

“To… relax?”

George repositions himself in his suit, suddenly a bit uncomfortable. Dream watches him with hawk eyes before speaking again. “Why? Don’t you want to drive?”

“I-” George starts, but stops himself short. He really doesn’t have any valid excuse anymore. Dream’s stare pries into him like a thousand arrows, aiming directly for his heart. It’s not heated like it was at the church, but rather confused; disappointed. George hates it.

Scrambling through the depths of his brain for a valid answer, George eventually blurts out, “The tires. They- uh, they’re flat. Kind of.”

“Flat?” Dream repeats, eyebrows twisted, before exiting the car to presumably go inspects the said “flat” tires. George stills, and watches helplessly as his boyfriend checks each tire pressure by hand.

Dream pokes and prod at the left front tire, directly beside where George is seated. He wets his lips and presses them together in a thin line as he concentrates. Lips eventually pulling into a frown, Dream stands up straight and appears by George’s window a few seconds later, beckoning him to roll it down. George obliges, timid.

“The front left is shot.”

George’s eyes widen. He was not expecting that.

Dream opens the door and nudges George gently. George suppresses a giggle at the ticklish sense. “I’ll drive, just in case. Don’t want us crashing.”

George nods at first, then his eyes light up with mirth as he teases, “Are you saying I’m a bad driver?”

“Didn’t you say you didn’t wanna drive anymore?” Dream shoots back, smiling despite themselves. George sighs and begrudgingly agrees, exiting the driver’s side and walking over to take a seat as a passenger.

Dream shifts the gears, and they’re off. George stares out the window remotely. It’s been a steady build up so far, the intensity of the nightmares and the driving, but he wonders how much longer it’ll take until he cracks underneath the pressure. 

  
  
  


Nighttime sends cascades of apprehensions and jitteriness pulsing beneath his skin as he lies in bed again, eyes shot from lack of sleep but brain downright refusing to even think about drifting into slumber anytime soon, if not for the countless terrors he will experience in his mindscape.

Sleep does come eventually, albeit reluctantly and fought against.

And with sleep, comes the visions, the substantial haze that seems to be sought for by Incubus himself, flooding his dreams and his mindset with inescapable terror.

But this time it’s different.

It’s not a stranger taking the hit, or himself and his family members.

But rather,

_ blond hair, emerald green eyes, beautiful freckled face and toothy smile. _

No.

_ No, no. _

George can only watch, observe as a feeble spectator, as it happens.

The two cars plummet into each other at such high speeds the rubble from the impact makes its way over to George, sprinkling around him like a light drizzle on a cool spring day.

Dream launches from out the window and lands in the middle of the street, limbs discombobulated and features askew and ruined. The other, miraculously, makes it out without a scratch. He takes one pitiful glance at the heap of boy on the ground and scampers out of there. George can only do so much as scream in pathetic remorse as the offender makes their escape.

George makes his way over to Dream, crouches down and takes him in his arms. It’s fruitless really, as he watches his boyfriend’s life quickly drain out. George can’t do anything; it’s over.

The blood spills out relentlessly, coating George’s hands in spectacular shades of red and brown. Dream gives him one last heart-wrenching smile before he gives out and falls limp against George’s arms.

George screams, if only to wake himself up and the inward thought reeling inside of his mind that  _ this is a sign. This is a fucking sign. _

The brunet shoots out of bed and lets out a particularity depressing and muffled sob as he glances over at Dream, breathing, unconscious from slumber, but alive.

Taking a shaky breath, George clambers over to rest by him and sniffles gently into the fabric of his t-shirt.

The next time Dream asks, George will downright  _ refuse  _ to drive again.

~

The rain is pouring endlessly outside, hitting the window and shaking the house with every thunderstrike. The moon, low in the sun, shines down like nothing is wrong at all. Dream can’t help but envy her.

Their house is dark, loomed with the everlasting shadows produced by the dark demeanour of the rain.

Dream turns to face his boyfriend, who is currently watching the rain rush down the windowpane like a race, deadpan expression situated on his face. 

“Hey,” Dream starts, and George turns his head over to his direction, “didn’t you say yesterday that you think the car needs a new set of tires?”

George’s eyes widen as he perks up, confused, but his face morphs into a stance of serenity so quickly Dream is sure he only imagined the aforementioned confusion. “Yeah, when are you planning on getting some?”

Dream glances back at the rain again. It isn’t all too bad, just a meager thunderstorm. He’s driven through much worse in his time. “Probably… now, I guess.”

George shoots up from where he was previously seated, and moves to face in front of Dream. His eyebrows are risen, eyes wide with fear, as he stares Dream down. Everything in his attitude screams  _ dangerous _ . Dream pays it no mind, his decision already set in stone. And knowing George, it’ll take no less than a few words to convince him. “Now? It’s dark, Dream. And raining. And I really don’t want you to get hurt, or worse-”

Dream tilts his head, and moves forward to place his arms on either side of George’s shoulders. “You trust me, yeah?”

George looks at him, eyes filled with enormous amounts of determination. His stance stills as he relaxes underneath the warm touch. “Always.”

Dream grins. “Then don’t worry your pretty little head.” He leans down until his lips are ghosting George’s forehead, and leaves a lingering kiss there, whispering, “I’ll be back.”

George looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. He lets Dream go with no more than a small, shy wave. Dream counts himself lucky for the umpteenth time that week that he has such a devoted and kindhearted boyfriend.

Dream exits the house with no regrets, pulling his overcoat around himself more secure to be protected from the rain.

Maybe he’ll regret not saying anything else to George later, but frankly, why should he? 

_ What could possibly go wrong? _

Unlocking the car with a gentle click of his keys, Dream climbs in and pulls the door closed behind him.

Then, he starts driving.

Driving has become something he can do subconsciously while still being connected to reality. It eases his nerves, his pain, his deeper emotions he has yet to uncover. He can do it all so easily while being mindful of how he does it and who’s affected by it. Driving, to him, is an escape from the apparent, a connection to an alternate universe where he can drop everything, start his car, and just  _ go _ .

The rain does prove to be a slight obstacle in his wake, but he surpasses it easily enough. Not many people are out tonight because of the weather and the late hour, save for a few stragglers from parties or coming home from a night shift at work. Dream feels free, in a sense.

He makes a sharp right turn on the bend, flicking his turn signal off once it’s complete. The road stretches for about two short miles before he can enter his destination, so he flicks cruise control on and turns up the radio a little, relishing in his own counterworld he has created for himself.

The stoplight ahead of him glimmers a sharp green before flicking to yellow. He slows down in speed, easing off the gas a little in preparation to push on the brake. 

The light lingers red for a long few moments, showing no signs of turning back to the go ahead color anytime soon. He pushes down on the brakes a little more and stops, ever so steadily, at the light. No cars are around. It’s ominous, eerie even. Dream fiddles with the radio settings a little more to drown out his back minded suspicions.

He relaxes a little in the fabric of the seat and thinks about kicking his feet up on the dash but intelligently decides against it. 

Red lights and stop signs litter the intersection. Dream can’t help but laugh fondly on how George always freaks out whenever he sees them.

_ “Dream! Dream! What do I do? Do I stop? Is that even red?” _

_ “George- GEORGE! Yes, haaa, yes you have to stop.” _

_ “You should’ve told me earlier then! Jesus Christ.” _

A white car zooms past on the other side, where they do not have to subside their driving as of yet. Dream watches as it parks in a front yard, and as the couple climbs out, retreating back to another hand in hand.

“ _ Dream! What the fuck- they, they pulled in front of me!” _

_ “George- they literally have the right away!” _

_ “The hell does that mean? Look- now they’re just slowing down!” _

_ Dream keeps interrupting his sentences with breathless wheezes. “That’s- oh my fucking GOD, George, haah- _

_ “That’s because they’re turning! Do-don’t you see their signal?” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ Dream loses it right then and there, dissolving into a mess of non stopping wheezes and guffaws. George joins in moments later, once he picks up speed and turns on the side street. Life is good. _

The light still hasn’t turned. Dream is normally one for patience, but now this is just getting ridiculous. He sighs, and proceeds to think about more happier things. Things warm like a Floridian summer day, soft like pooling honey; things like George.

_ Dream and George, on their first date, awkward and shy, yet so enamoured all the same. _

_ Dream and George, moving in together oh so many months ago. Absolute elation. _

_ Dream and George, cuddled up together on their couch, watching a movie. _

_ Dream and George. George and Dream. Until the end of time and beyond, till death do they part. _

It comes out of nowhere, after Dream is done daydreaming about his lover in a lovestruck haze. The silver pickup truck, barreling down the hill on the left. It’s headlights are turned on bright, having Dream’s car dazzling and reflecting at the surface. He doesn’t notice until it’s too late.

The impact is rough and heavy. The truck crashes into the side, ruining the metal and pushing the surface square into Dream’s body, punctuating him and impaling him directly inside of the material. Everything happens all at once. His breath catches in his throat and the bright colored ichor pools from his mouth and skin. His heart beats unceasingly against his ribcage, crying for some sort of closure or release. He’s paralysed; ripped apart and drifting farther and farther away from the grass of reality.

It is brutal. Just how mere minutes ago he had been thinking about wonderful things, beautiful people, and the polar opposite of marvelous happens. Funny how the world works. Funny how  _ fate  _ works.

The pickup truck backs away and flees the scene. Dream cries for help but no sound comes out. He’s trapped inside of his own car, watching his life disappear before his very eyes, seeping out like an hourglass and spilling out all over the pavement.  _ Driver’s License  _ is still playing on the radio, his car is lopsided and wrecked. Everything is imperfect. This was not meant to happen.

He had promised George. George trusts him to return home, safe and sound with new tires. He broke his promise, undoubtedly. 

Funny, how he’s scrounging off of the remains of his life and the first thing he is able to think about is  _ George _ . 

Dream tries to smile, but it hurts. Everything hurts, but it’s oh so numb at the same time. 

He needs his sweet release, and he needs it now.

Taking a shuddering breath, Dream lets his eyes flutter closed. Police sirens blare in the background. The stoplight turns green. A little too late, but the effort is there all the same.

Till death do they part. Who would’ve known that it would come so early?

~

Flashes of red and black sprint around George’s vision. Thousands of pairs of eyes are situated on him, watching as innocent bystanders, all the while life is drained from George’s face and facade. Notably paler, much more weaker, and utterly hopeless; George lies there. Broken. Under the rough texture of a front right tire.

His chest is heaving with every gasping breath he struggles to take, suffocating the life out of him and relentless; leaving no room for mercy.

It’s quick but painful. Expected but surprising nonetheless. George continues to lie there, helpless and flailing away the reminisce of his energy under the vehicle; dying.

George wakes up from a phone call at around two in the morning. 

He shoots out of bed, sweat drenching his clothing and flooding throughout his skin, his heart racing, eyes the size of saucers, and breathing ragged. 

He’s alive. It was just another nightmare. Mindlessly, he reaches out in the dark for the contact of another hand, one that has been there for him for years.

The hand isn’t there. 

He shoots his head over abnormally fast, searching with dilated eyes for the presence of his boyfriend. He isn’t there.

_ Why isn’t Dream there? _

_ He should have been home hours ago. _

_ … _

_ Maybe he fell asleep in the living room. _

_ Yeah. _

_ He’s okay. _

_ … _

_ Right? _

The phone is still ringing in the distance. George steadies himself before taking note of the sound echoing throughout the dark room.

Belatedly, with shaking hands, he reaches out to accept the phone call.

“Hello?” he answers, voice hoarse.

“Is this George Davidson?” the male on the other side of the line dryly greets, voice monotone and unreadable. For whatever reason, George feels unshed tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.

George nods his head pathetically before realising the man cannot see his movements. Instead, he responds with a small, “Yeah?”

The person on the other line takes a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry to break this news out to you over phone, but-”

“ _ What?  _ What news?” George interrupts. “What happened? Is everything okay? Who is this?”

“Sir, sir, please try to calm down,” the stranger attempts to comfort, “I need you to listen to me.”

_ I only listen to Dream.  _ George takes a steady breath and shakes his head. “Okay. What?”

“Okay, okay,” the man on the other line starts, perhaps in an attempt to calm himself first, “I- I feel like this would be better in person.”

George furrows his eyebrows. “I can’t drive yet, not without someone in the car at least.” He stops himself right there, before realising something. “Hey, wait! Maybe I can get my boyfriend to-”

“You can’t,” the other butts in, then backtracks, after realising what he said. “I- that’s the issue here.”

_ What? _

“I hate to break this to you over the phone, but it seems as if there is no other way now.”

The stranger on the other side takes a deep breath before continuing. It’s so quiet that if a pin dropped, or a mouse scurried throughout the shafts in the basement, it would threaten to deafen George’s ears, now used to the sound of utter nothingness. 

Who knew a single sentence that would come from a stranger’s mouth would change his life forever.

“Dream Taken passed away just a few minutes ago, from repercussions of a fatal car accident.”

George drops the phone onto the bed.

“He suffered multiple energies. We tried to keep him stable for a while, which is why we are calling so late.”

The tears previously encompassing the corner of his eyes start to pour out in cascades of waterfalls.

“The accident was not his fault. The owner of the other vehicle was under the influence. She will be charged accordingly.”

George’s heart falls to his feet, breaks in two, and shatters. He can’t breathe.

“Once again, all my condolences for breaking this news to you over phone. I’m sure we can-”

With shaking hands, George hangs up and throws the putrid device across the room. It lands on the hardwood floor and cracks, spewing some of the screen about. 

The tears continue falling relentlessly. George can’t move. He’s frozen, paralysed in place. His eyes are dazed as he stares at nothing and everything at all, trying to comprehend what just happened.

This can’t be real. This cannot be real.  _ This cannot be fucking real. _

His nightmares have become a reality. All those nights spent in agitation in alarm, circumscribing his life around him and flipping it upside down.

The permit sits on the bedside table, mocking him. 

George, helpless and alone, lets out an Earth wrenching scream and stands up abruptly, with shaking legs. He grabs a shard of glass from the broken phone screen and snatches up the permit. With absolute vigor, he tears it apart ruthlessly. 

He does not stop until it's completely mangled and ruined. Until his face is unrecognizable on the plastic, his information unintelligible. He does not stop until his hands are bloody and bleeding maroon from multiple mishaps from his hands, until the crimson and burgundy shades splatter across the permit and enlist on it forever, implanted and ruinous.

_ This cannot be happening. _

Throwing the permit and the shard in the corner of the room, George knocks the table over in an attempt to scramble back to their -  _ his  _ bed.

Curling up in a fetal position and sobbing, George feels his heart heavy with regret. He shouldn’t have agreed. Shouldn’t have trusted so easily, given in so effortlessly. This wouldn’t have happened.  _ Couldn’t  _ have happened.

_ I should have never listened to Dream. _

When he falls asleep again that night, the nightmares continue, as vivid and barbaric as ever before.

**~**

George isn’t upset.

Not at Dream, at least. George could never stay angry at Dream, even if he abandoned him and is now six feet buried in the earth.

But rather, George is upset at himself.

For loving too easily. For not being to let go, despite the fact the only man he has cared for is now gone. For giving in and trusting every word that escaped his mouth with such carelessness, it cost him. For listening with open ears and a heart of gold and honey, hanging off of every word, every phrase, every promise and every idea.

George should have never listened to Dream. 

The gravel crunches beneath his sneakers as he slowly makes his way through the paths in the graveyard, pulling his hoodie tighter over his head to block out the majority of the rain. He stares with dead eyes, making his way directly towards where he wants to go; despite the fact he has yet to visit.

_ Drivers License  _ plays on a loop, escaping his phone and reverberating through his earbuds, but he has long since tuned it out days ago.

It’s all mundane, really. Everything in his life has morphed into dull shades of grey; nothing interests him anymore and nothing ever will.

Finally, after what seemed to take years, he arrives at his destination. 

What his family picked out for him is beautiful, and flourishing with a plethora of blue and green flowers;  _ their  _ colors. The stone shines despite the precipitation pouring down from the skies, and the message engraved in bold black letters speaks a thousand words. George can almost imagine his voice reading it out to him, like a meable bedtime story instead of blatant reality.

_ Dream Taken. Special to many, friend to all. _

George’s salty tears rushing down his face like waterfalls really don’t accompany the tombstone very well, but there really isn’t anything he can do about that.

He takes a few steps back and tries not to dwell too much on what could’ve been. Instead, he takes his shaking hands and reaches inside of his hoodie pocket.

First, he bends down and places Dream’s car keys to the left of his grave. Quick escapees from friend’s places and long road trips across the country come to George’s memory in a flash. All the nights spent in that car together for flimsy make outs or jam sessions. The days spent driving, turning the radio up as high as it can go on the country station just to upset the blond. 

Cars plummeting into one another, blood pooling out and spilling from the seats and windows,  _ he wasn’t even there to prevent it. _

He ignores the way his heart drops down to reside beneath the surface with Dream and brings out the reminisce of his destroyed permit. He watches with zero emotion in his face, save for the tears of waterfalls, as the rain thunders down on the flimsy plastic and obliterates it in seconds.

George intakes a sharp breath of air and speaks for the first time in days, wincing at the state of his voice: “Hey, Dream.”

His voice cracks and falters in the middle as he chokes out a dry sob. Avalanches of emotion plummet throughout his body and shake him at the stitching. It’s all too much.

The rain that had pooled on the tombstone and is now drizzling past the smooth grey surface makes it look like Dream is crying with him. Or mocking him. 

Taking a deep breath, George closes his eyes and recollects his thoughts. He can’t tell whether it’s the rain rushing down his face or his own tears.

George followed Dream and his obscene ideas to the ends of the Earth and beyond. Every nook, crevice, or cranny they approached they conquered together. Their bond was unbreakable, their trust was untouchable. They expressed their love and support towards each other so openly many envied their relationship. Nothing was able to stop them; they were able to surpass any trial or obstacle thrown in their way. Driving seemed like an easy thing to learn, something so meeble and futile it was not spared a second glance in the bigger picture of things.

Now look where that got them.

George, helpless and broken; an afterthought in society, ripped apart by the seams and left alone. Dream, six feet underground and gone; removed from the epicenter of humankind, sky high because of something he adored and abandoned to the eyes of the living.

All because of something so commonplace, so normal; their lives are mangled and ruined.

Tone raw and voice hoarse, layered with regret and memories, broken promises and fractured trust, George murmurs, “It’s been a wild ride, hasn’t it my love?”

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i hope you enjoyed, thank you so much for making it to the end<3
> 
> please let me know your thoughts or if you cried in the comments, i'd love to know how i did!  
> kudos & user subscriptions are very much appreciated
> 
> sorry i went a little off the grid for a while, however i'm very active on my twitter! follow [here](https://twitter.com/lindsflea) and say hello(or scream at me) if ya want
> 
> love you and have a wonderful day! <3 /p


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